Robbery vs Burglary
by Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Sherlock is interested in a sexual relationship w John, but must confront abuse issues in his past, although he has little information to go on to start the process. Are his issues due to abuse, asexuality, or a combination of the two.. and how can he sort it all out? Updated with MA content removed, so I can continue to post on this site...is now M.
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock, you don't have to… no, no you damn well better _not_ be doing this for me."

John's voice took on a echoing quality, as the sound bounced back towards him from against the bedroom wall. Sherlock's body remained next to his, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. John traced Sherlock's gaze to a small threadbare spot on the sheet, convinced the detective was forming some elaborate deduction as to the army doctors' secret fantasy life. In actuality, Sherlock had merely deduced it was where John routinely placed his thumb and forefinger during the final pull of the sheet as he make the bed each morning. It betrayed nothing more than the precision of a military man, still engrained in him after being invalided out of the service. Sherlock wondered if John ever thought, with gradually fading pride, that you could still bounce a coin on the tightly-made bed- whether he consciously strove for that degree of precision, or whether things like this just became ingrained in muscle memory, the body merely reacting without thought.

John had never expected to find himself here, lying in bed naked, save for his pants, with Sherlock on the bed's edge in his dressing gown and pajamas. If you had asked John Watson, even as recently as 24 hours ago, about his sexuality, he would have looked you in the eye and… well…wondered why the hell you thought it was any of your business. If you were his mate, though, he would have declared himself straight, even though he knew it was a bit more complicated than that. There had been a grand total of two men in his life he had felt drawn to. One of them was next to him at this very moment. The other never made it out of Afghanistan.

Plunging himself head-first into a string of relationships with women upon his return to civilian life, he never expected to have occasion to think of himself as anything but straight ever again. After all, John was dating women exclusively, and the only man he was finding himself attracted to... well... he was most definitely asexual. Or so he had firmly believed, with all the confidence of a recent attendee of the "Understanding the Sexual Spectrum" lecture at the British Society for Sexual Medicine Conference. He was under no illusion that he was capable of hiding his interest, albeit a sharply curtailed one, in Sherlock Holmes; he saw no use in pining after a self-proclaimed highly-functioning sociopath who expressed no interest in him, or anyone else for that matter; and he was confident Sherlock knew their friendship meant more to him than acting on any passing physical attraction to his (frankly, gorgeous) flatmate (with the cheekbones and the turned up collar). But here they were.

All that he could think of, and he hoped to God he was wrong, was this was some combination of a desperate attempt and a calculating plan on Sherlock's part, designed to keep him happy so he wouldn't run off and leave 221B in search of a bride, 2.4 children and a white picket fence. John had no use for that either. He hadn't ruled out finding the right woman, but no one, no one, could ever lure him into a "normal" life. Furthermore, any woman in his life would have to have a firm understanding that Sherlock was very much a part of it. But since Sherlock had still employed his cockblocking skills at every turn, John assumed his best friend was not equally confident John would remain dedicated to the man who had given his life purpose.

John wasn't sure exactly what it meant when Sherlock came up to his room, sat on his bed, and gave him a calculatingly passionate kiss, but he knew he damned well didn't want to be catered to, and he damn damned well didn't want to be part of someone's ongoing experiment in sexuality. "I mean it Sherlock," he tried again. "I won't leave you."

Sherlock was disappointed. The reaction was not what he had expected. Not at all. There wasn't any doubt many people found him attractive- he used this to his advantage whenever possible in gathering information and he was always careful to look his best. More to the point, John was attracted to him- that was a pitifully simple observation. John was supposed to have been swept away on some powerful wave of lust, to have returned the kiss with all the ferocity of a thousand suns, and then, they would be in bed together with a warm mouth against his pale, long neck, and then, hands on cocks, and it would all be fine. That part he knew he could handle, if he could make it past the initial steps.

Although he occasionally managed to convince himself that he and what he conveniently labeled as "sentiment" were adversaries, Sherlock was all too aware of the reality: he had no idea how to work through the uncertainty, the moments when he just couldn't stand to be held or touched because it just felt so… what? Odd? Wrong? Oh, but it wasn't wrong at all. Sherlock hated how his reactions made him seem like a prudish schoolgirl, someone who was desperately trying to adhere to some antiquated moral code about the "rightness" of sexual activity. Sex was good. He craved the release. His body was always so intransigent, but with enough stimuli it would be fine, he would respond as… expected.

At Uni, sex was a frenzy of activity with no time to let errant thoughts derail him, but that had usually involved drugs or alcohol, (or both, and usually for both participants), lowering inhibition, dulling his initial feeling of awkward discomfort. But John was talking, stopping, waiting, asking. Clearly, the kiss was inferior and being sober was a gross miscalculation.

"John, have you ever known me to start something contrary to my own wishes?" Sherlock replied, with just enough of his patented arrogance to make it convincing. John's expression changed from pity to puzzlement, and then morphed into one of supreme confidence. _Oh. He is chalking it up to my supposed inexperience. Well, that might be a convenient enough explanation._

"I thought you weren't interested in … in this. But it's just new, then? Haven't kissed a lot of people, men, before?" John was looking into his eyes, attempting to read him carefully. That was surprising. For all the scrutinizing Sherlock did, being on the other end of the microscope, so to speak, was unsettling. Having someone truly care what was going on in his head, well that was kind of new, wasn't it. And – interesting.

He tilted his head to the side and thought about which was better... to be thought of as an inexperienced virgin or to be thought of as damaged goods. Virgin it is.

"No. Sorry," he looked downward and tried to bring a blush to his cheeks. _That should do it. Excuse all the awkwardness._

"Then I guess we can take it slow," John said with a gentle smile, raising his hand to touch Sherlock's face.

No. No. Not good. Now instead of jumping to the point where he could finally count on the overriding physical sensations of arousal, John was dragging it out. His mind was spinning, looking for a way out while he concentrated on preventing himself from flinching at the sensation of John's hand on his cheek. Everything was screaming that he did not want to do this. It was proving too much to hide it while being observed this closely. By John. He tried to pass it off as nervous tension, but there was a layer of revulsion. A virgin would feel many things, fear, anticipation, but not revulsion.

"No." John said. "No, this is not nerves; this is you not wanting this. Not wanting this at all and… no. I have no idea what got into that head of yours that I would just do this anyway. For a case? " John reached for his robe and stormed off downstairs, leaving Sherlock still sitting on the bed. He headed after him, pausing only to wrap his robe more tightly around his body.

"It's not that I don't like you, or that I don't like sex...it's," Sherlock's brows knitted together as he tried to find a logical explanation. "It's the leading up to it… it's the…"

"Foreplay. Is. Tedious." said John, with a wry smile and his best imitation of a resonant baritone. Then that smile turned mischievous and the voice was John's once again. "Let me assure you, if that's the case, you're not doing it right. I can help. Sit down."

Sherlock took a seat at the table, creating a bit of distance between himself and John, who was now pacing, in full diagnostician mode.

"I was wondering if you would do that. I mean, if you would hyperfocus on your environment… notice distracting details around you? I would imagine with your brain always running at full-speed like it does, it would never shut off." John took a seat opposite Sherlock. "If you could manage to stop your mind from going off on other tangents, you might find sex would be like a temporary shutdown. It could be a tremendous relief to go off-line for a while."

"Oh, it is a tremendous relief. It is. And it does shut my brain down, and I do… reset," said Sherlock. The rest of John's deductions were, as usual, completely wrong. He fought to keep silent on that point.

John tried to contain a surge of excitement. He could be the one to do that… be the one to make that amazing brain lose out to that amazing body. He felt his heart race, his breath quicken. "So you do want this?" he forced the words out.

"Very much so."

"I know a thing or two about removing external stimuli... distractions. A blindfold might be a good start." John's eyes blazed with intensity.

Sherlock fought back a rising wave of pure panic. With his senses curtailed, there would be nothing grounding him in the present. Not one part of this entire conversation had gone right. Time to be a bit more honest.

"It is not external images I am concerned about, it is the internal ones."

John was confused. "Of what? What do you see in your head?" He was mentally preparing himself for a discussion on how fantasies were perfectly normal, nothing to be ashamed of, even if they seemed a bit eccentric, or violent, or…well… just plain bizarre, it was all fine.

"Boxes."

Clearly not what he was expecting to hear.

"Boxes. Sealed with packing tape," Sherlock closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "Some of them don't have tape on them. Some are open."

John stared.

Sherlock breathed, and then continued. "The ones by the fireplace are open, but they are empty. I tried to sift through the ashes, but… just ashes. In the fireplace… in my… mind palace."

Now John knew what he is dealing with, or at least he suspected he did. Everything in him wanted to hold Sherlock tight, wrap his arms around the man and wait for the outpouring of emotion, but he watched Sherlock's body language as he shifted back in his chair, farther away, and sensed that would probably be at the top of the list of Things Not to Do. He decided to offer support with his words, and try not to make assumptions. After all, he had been wrong on nearly every count so far.

"You …deleted…repressed? …something?"

"There's nothing there, John. How can I fix it if there's nothing there? How can I even hope to piece it together? I don't know what was in them. If it is something sinister or… extraneous information on the solar system," he says with a weak smile.

"But it comes up… the feelings… when you are held, touched?"

"Yes."

"Then you know what it is, Sherlock."

"It would be wrong to theorize without facts, John. It could be nothing."

"You know what it is. Your body knows. Your heart knows." Sherlock gave John a glare made of pure cynicism, but John continued, unabated. "For Christ's sake, Sherlock, you didn't just shove those memories in a box, you burned them! Your feelings count. Look... if we went out for Chinese, came back home and everything was in disarray- the lamp was knocked over and the papers strewn about, and… and valuable things were missing- you would never see the burglar, but you would still damn well know something happened."

"By the damage done," Sherlock said quietly, weakly. Then he straightened in his chair and returned to his full strength and volume. "It is not an entirely apt analogy. What if it's not real, John? What if it's an excuse, and the boxes have always been empty. Maybe I shouldn't go searching for causes and trying to heal, maybe it's just how I am. Maybe I just don't like romance and sentiment. Maybe I just want a rush and bliss and a reset button," he said, trying for a confident defiance.

"Maybe it is just how you are. I wouldn't try to define it, though. There are no rules. Decide what you want… what you feel comfortable with, what you want to change and what you don't. If you want to try cuddling up, I'm fine with that. If you don't like it, I'm fine with that, too. If you want to challenge your defenses, expand your boundaries a little at a time… or if you want to bypass anything remotely like foreplay and call on Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers to pound you right into the fucking mattress, or even if you decide this whole sex thing isn't what you want at all, I'm here. I want you in my life. I don't want to change you." John couldn't tell if Sherlock was believing his words, but he could see that he was taking it in, rolling it around in his head. "You are absolutely fucking perfect, no matter what was in those boxes. Even if they were always empty."


	2. At Your Service

"John, that was rather touchingly sentimental, but you equate sex with love and," each word was said with a greater derision "... romance and… snogging. Give me free reign to do whatever I wish and you will stay? It won't work. I will use it to my advantage. I will be the most insensitive, demanding lover when you want to be left alone, and I will want nothing to do with your touch when you want me near. "

"Try me."

Sherlock looked baffled, and John continued. "I know you will need time to process exactly what a relationship means to you, and I am telling you that you should take what you need. If I have a problem with it, I will let you know. That is my responsibility; it's not yours to try and deduce how I feel. And you can…we can work on it if you want to."

"I've been to therapists, John. I don't see the point in paying someone to pretend to like me and to pretend to care about my problems, all the while waiting for the session to be over so he can meet his girlfriend for lunch. Besides, I really have nothing to talk about. In this instance, quite literally."

"I'm not talking about that type of therapy, Sherlock. I am talking about desensitization. Slowly acclimating to new sensations. You start with something that feels OK and, get closer to your goal in small increments. I would think you would like that approach. More scientific."

"And if I don't want to do behavioral modification," Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "you are saying I retain the option of skipping over any affectionate foreplay – of using you for pure physical release at my whim- and you will accept that?"

John paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Are you asking me if I will get tired of being used as a living, breathing sex toy?"

"Essentially, yes."

My God. "I don't see myself getting tired of anything involving you and sex in the foreseeable future."

"Hmmmm."

* * *

"Captain John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, I require your services!" came the bellow from Sherlock's room.

John headed down – starting at a brisk pace, but slowing down considerably when he got to the base of the stairs. He knew what this was all about, but in the back of his head he was still thinking of this as some sort of bizarre fire drill. Yes, Sherlock would test if he would come, and then, upon seeing him silhouetted in his doorway, he would get that uniquely Sherlockian grin, and, with a resonant laugh, he would send him away. John took a deep breath and headed to Sherlock's room, calling out as he drew nearer, "Captain Watson, reporting for duty…," he opened the door, "how can I be of service…?" He struggled not to have his voice give out mid-sentence, like some cheesy comedy routine.

* * *

It was far more difficult than he thought, resisting the urge to kiss Sherlock's flushed mouth, those amazing lips- instead watching him roll to his side and tuck himself into a protective stance, knees wrapping into his chest. His back convulsed a bit as he said "I'm all right John, I am fine," and examined his body as if cataloging the evidence of his own orgasm. Sherlock pulled the sheet across his back, stretched out his legs and appeared to be drifting into sleep, were it not for the telltale signs of a struggle to regain regular breathing and composure.

"Should I leave?"

There was no response.

John left.

He headed straight to his laptop.


	3. Research

**Sexual Abuse Victims**. _OK, lots of information_. Survivors Support Group meeting at St. Andrews. _Women. Mostly women's groups. OK._ **Sexual Abuse Victims** **Male**. One in six under age 18. _One in six?_ Gender of victim irrelevant to abuser, power and manipulation of innocence the primary factor. Victim often exhibits confusion about their sexual identity- seeing it as either a cause for having been targeted for the abuse or as an effect of the abuse. Less likely to report the incident than females or to confide in others, and may mistrust authority figures. Victims may integrate coping mechanisms into their personality or sexuality to gain greater control over the effects of the abuse. _Right_. Less likely to consider it abuse and may maintain a relationship with the abuser, believing it to be consensual- particularly if the victim's body responded physically to the stimulation. _Hadn't thought of that_. Victims may seek to ignore, numb or punish their body with drugs or alcohol, or deny its basic needs by withholding food, rest or medical care. _Oh, Christ._ Feeling less masculine. Sex as a weapon or manipulative tool. Violent outbursts. Not interested in sex. Very interested in sex. _Either?_ _Huh_. Need to control environment. Anxiety. Concern of becoming an abuser. Self-blame/guilt.

He looked over his handwritten notes on the list of traits associated with victims of childhood sexual abuse and circled 'mistrust authority', 'coping mechanisms', 'sex as manipulation' (he and Irene would probably bond over that one), 'drugs', 'food', 'rest', 'medical care'… and… he had no idea whether Sherlock truly had no interest in sex or was highly interested in sex, so he sighed and reluctantly circled both. How a man could be both he had no clue, but Sherlock was most definitely finding a way. He seemed to be managing sexual feelings in the most efficient and least pleasurable way possible- perhaps denying them it until he was no longer capable, when his libido got strong enough to actually be insistent, and then addressing it quickly, ruthlessly, taking no pleasure in the emotional aspect of before or after, and ... John sighed, dropped the pen and leaned forward, his head in his hands. _OK. OK. So what do I do?_

He pictured Sherlock sitting across from Ella, this time it was him reading her upside-down writing, and John suppressed a laugh. No therapists. Not yet anyway. But clearly, whatever he has been doing up to this point hasn't been very effective, has it? Well- he was clean, that was significant. And he was capable of work—amazing work. And he was, well, maybe he could take care of himself? He just—preferred not to? This relationship—this relationship with him—was that going to make things better or worse?

Trying to mesh what he knew about Sherlock with current research only served to highlight how little he actually knew about Sherlock's sex life. He had believed the implication that he was a virgin; now he knew that to be completely false. But sex was hardly a means of emotional bonding with this version of "get off and get out," that was for sure. He thought about Sherlock's strong front, his abrasive personality was custom-made to preserve distance. The only person he had seen him get close to on a physical level was Mrs. Hudson. Not even his own brother.

How must that feel, to have something like that in your life and not know who it was, or when. You would be suspicious of everyone, wouldn't you? Most abusers were trusted family friends, even family themselves. The thought chilled him. Had Sherlock sought therapy on his own? Had he talked to anyone else about this? Mycroft? Had he been helpful? Did he believe Sherlock? Or worse- had he acted suspiciously? The Holmes family was probably expert at keeping all sorts of secrets. Or maybe they were crap at it because they all read each other like a book? Thinking about Holmes family dynamics made his head spin. He went upstairs for what he thought would definitely be a futile attempt at sleep.

* * *

"So did you look up asexuality?"

John looked up from the table, feeling like he had missed some essential bit of conversation. It was not a new feeling. With Sherlock's penchant for talking long after John left the room, it was a distinct possibility.

"While you were up researching last night. I know you looked up abuse. Obvious, given how strong my reaction was, but did you look that up as well?" Sherlock joined John at the breakfast table, eyeing the tea and toast with suspicion.

"Uh…no."

"Ah. I will save you the time and trouble. Asexuals do not feel sexual attraction to anyone. Hence, I am asexual. I will not see people on the street or in a magazine, or wherever I might be and think 'Hey, I want a piece of that,'" he grinned. "The very thought is beyond absurd to me. If I were to feel sexually drawn to a person I had already bonded with in a non-sexual way, like a close friend, well, that would be termed gray asexual or demi-sexual. Do yourself a favor and don't look those up online. Websites are loaded with opinions, and most of them are not written by the people who have personal experience in the matter. If I should, for some strange reason, start to develop the capacity for sexual attraction, you will most likely be the first to know."

"Ok. I can follow that."

"The next qualifier is a bit more complex. Do I feel any non-sexualized, romantic, feelings and to which gender. For me, that's far more difficult to explain."

"The gender thing? I can relate to that. I can't say there have been many men in my life, but I can't say there haven't been any. Straight is sort of a default position."

"No. I don't mean gender. I've yet to be sexually or emotionally drawn to a woman."

"But Irene..?"

"Is a very fascinating person. She served to remind me of just how … atypical… I can be. The difficult part for me to determine is the need for non-sexual romance. Hugging, kissing, cuddling, that sort of thing. 'Romantic', is the terminology. As opposed to 'Aromantic'."

"Oh. And do you? Want those sorts of things?"

"I don't know. Some things I don't particularly like. Kissing with tongues, for example. I don't get much out of it and it feels pointless and more than a little bit odd. Kissing, in general, seems an odd thing to do. I've often wondered what its biological purpose is… gauging body temperature, I should think. Not repellant or distressing… just a waste of time. I could do it. I feel no wish to."

"And... cuddling?"

"Distressing."

"Can you describe how? In what way?"

"I feel pinned down. I feel like I'm rolling down a hill, losing ability to stop before the next step. I would suspect that particular reaction has more to do with abuse than asexuality. Neither caused, nor was caused by, the other, but when both are in the mix it makes it rather difficult to sort out."

"So, a little from Column A and a little from Column B in the sexual problems category."

Sherlock shot him a glare that redefined the word icy, pushed his chair in and left the toast and tea on the table. "I don't consider one of the many variations of human sexuality to be a 'problem.' In my opinion, not being physically attracted to a person unless I consciously choose to partake in sexual activity is a great benefit, not some flaw needing to be reversed."

John replied quickly, with more than the usual share of panic... "Oh, no, no, no, I meant that…"

"Now you can add 'defective' to your catalogue of my faults on your blog. That will fit in so nicely next to 'spectacularly ignorant'." He headed over to the couch and collapsed onto it.

"That was a careless attempt at humour- a defense mechanism. I didn't think it through, and I'm not sure what to do with this information as it pertains to me. It is rather new, and..."

"Thinking it through is not your strong suit. Fortunately, this doesn't have to pertain to you at all, John" and with that, he rolled towards the back of the couch.

_Great. Just great, Watson._ "I'm going out for some groceries. I'm…I'm sorry."

"Mmmm… you just went shopping yesterday. You don't have to make up an excuse for wanting to leave."

"I'll be back soon. I just want to – walk—and think."


	4. Masturbation is Tedious

"Because masturbation _most definitely_ is tedious."

"Can't we ever have a normal conversation? You know, the type when you say, 'Hello John, how was your walk?' I'd even be able to accept your deducing the path I took by the type of mud on my shoes and, oh, I don't know, the state of my hair due to some sort of wind, thingy, but this, this just jumping into my head thing, could we not do that please?"

"Apologies, John. Did you have a nice walk to the coffee shop and enjoy your coffee with cream and a croissant before heading down to Regents Park, where you sat on a bench and fed several pigeons your pastry before turning up North Gower Street- yes, very good, John, you're _learning-_ there is a mild wind-tunnel effect between some of the larger buildings, and you were indeed entirely too lost in thought to have fixed your hair because you were distractedly thinking about _something_ that I'm clearly not supposed to be able to figure out—I certainly wouldn't presume it had _anything_ to do with what we were discussing when you left, such as why I would choose to have sex when I feel no sexual attraction to others. There _is_ no mud on your shoes, both because you stayed on the pavement, and because it hasn't rained, but yes, let us discuss that journey, by all means. Was it pleasant?"

"It was cold."

"Yes, hence the coffee. And you weren't really hungry, hence the breakfast for the birds. Is this entertaining?"

"OK, fine. So a good wank is dull, is it? And I am far more interesting?"

"Yes, you are."

"It didn't seem like you were paying very much attention to me. Rather lost in your own head."

"At first. Trying to process things. It has been a while. And you see, but you do not observe, or it would have been perfectly obvious to you how I was able to zero in on your reactions, and even get a bit of transference out of it. I wasn't able to progress to the next level until you did, remember? An effective and quite nice distraction, in fact."

"I thought you didn't want me to react?"

"No, I didn't want you to touch me. I wasn't ready for that yet. I let you know when I was." Sherlock grinned.

The mention of that, and the flood of sense memory that came with it, brought a new wave of heat to John's body. "So, so you can get off on watching me? Grab some of my sexual energy? Wow, Sherlock, leave it to you to find a brand new way to be selfish in bed. I like it." John returned the grin. He paused and continued reflecting on the experience; his face darkening. "So the beginning and the end were, I mean…"

"Yes, the beginning and the end were …"

"A bit not good."

"Yes. A bit not good. Getting there and coming back down."

"But in the moment? It was good?"

"Outstanding."

"I see. But you don't really feel the urge to do that sort of thing?"

"No. My libido isn't tremendously high, but it isn't non-existent either, and while I don't find partnered sex repellent, I don't usually find it appealing. However, I knew you were attracted to me and it seemed like it might be worth it, and it certainly was. I trust you. I didn't know it would be quite so difficult- to begin. I thought that part might have changed."

"Changed from last time. So, the bit about being new at this?"

"A lie. Yes. Please understand, I wasn't anticipating such a negative reaction when I was making a sexual advance. From my body, I mean. Or you to pick up on it if I did."

"Are you saying you were counting on me to be oblivious, or an arse?"

"I suppose, in my experience, either one would do. I was hoping for – distracted. I, underestimated the importance of various chemicals to assist the process, and, I wasn't …," he looked away. "I hadn't intended to discuss any of this."

"I'm glad you had to. So, I hope the times with those drunken berks didn't amount to anything serious. No relationships, then?"

"Oh God, no. Not at all. No emotional involvement, so that suited me well. If my body wanted some sort of release, I might as well have made it _useful_. They got what they wanted; I got what I wanted. A mutually beneficial arrangement, particularly when they supplied drugs, which was most of the time. " Sherlock exuded contempt and scorn at his past self, and John wasn't as surprised by his actions as he thought he perhaps should have been. "Sometimes it was just something to do. Sometimes I would analyse what each sexual partner needed and, be that. Good practice."

"Why did you stop?"

"Victor Trevor had a case for me, and suggested what would turn out to be a rather promising career path. Then a certain Detective Inspector insisted I get clean or I would not be allowed access to another crime scene."

"Victor Trevor. Was he a drunken berk?"

"No. No, he was a friend."


	5. Victor

"Victor was the only friend I made during my grand total of two years there. You could, in fact, call it the first real friendship in which I was ever engaged. I'm not very proud of the circumstances under which we met.

"It shouldn't surprise you that I wasn't very sociable; I think I spent most of my free time moping in my room. It was May Week, and I was on my way back from chapel- the acoustics there are unlike anywhere I had ever been before or since- when I met up with a small group of classmates on the walk back. Oh, Sebastian Wilkes was among them- I had nearly forgotten. They were headed over to a nearby pub and invited me to join them. I was feeling more upbeat than usual, on account of the choir's performance and having finished most of my end-of-term work, so I decided to come along.

"We went to a nearby pub, had a few rounds, and some of the group headed back. Sebastian and Company weren't hating my "parlour tricks" quite yet, so long as I was able to point out girls they were likely to get a leg over with. One in particular was on the rebound and looking for a quick shag, and Dear ol' Seb thanked me for not keeping her for myself. He gave me a quick wink as they headed out the door.

"The crowd thinned, and I spotted someone I had had one of my 'relationships' with fairly recently, heading my way. I wasn't nearly drunk enough, but as he walked past me on his way towards the door he made sure I could just hear his promise of cocaine at his place above the din. I followed him out."

Sherlock stopped briefly, turned his head as if looking for something, then decided to continue on.

"Just a block past the bar, he turned and grabbed me and gave me a rather abrupt shove into a wall. I was a bit dazed, but I was fine, really. He went in for a kiss. I suggested we wait till we were back at his room to get started. We had…a difference of opinion. I knew I wasn't going to be able to convince him it would be better if we were both high, but I did think he would have at least appreciated a less public venue, and I told him so. I misread that particular piece of information completely. I should have realized, people often have completetly different proclivities than one would expect. The public space was not a deterrent. I tried to push him away a bit, but he responded by shoving me back again and leaning in for more.

"Victor was rounding the corner at this time; out walking his bull terrier. I suppose he took pity on me because he cried out and was promptly told to bugger off. I must have looked to be in a bad way, because the next thing I knew Victor's dog was on him and he managed to break free and run off… quite an accomplishment, considering the state of his ankle. I still don't think I was capable of speech; I might have had a bit of the wind knocked out of me from my second contact with the wall."

"Don't look so stunned, John. In that circumstance, it would have been easy to misinterpret fear as arousal- the same increased breathing, dilation- especially without my having spoken up. Besides, I wanted to get back to his place to get a fix, and he most likely didn't have anything, so he figured he'd take his chances seeing how far he could get on the spot. It wasn't as if I didn't deserve it, offering myself up in a goods for services deal."

"Victor had no trouble reading your face to see it wasn't wanted," John said, simply. He wanted to say more- much more- but he didn't want to risk Sherlock stopping. Discussions about his past were rare.

"Yes, Victor was always rather perceptive. He checked the back of my head and my throat, rather quickly and competently, and determined I was unharmed. That's when I found out he was studying medicine. He apologized for being so forward, explaining how he wanted to make sure the bleeding…"

"..The bleeding?" mumbled John.

"…had been superficial. Head wounds tend to look worse than they are."


	6. East Dereham

"I don't understand. Why a nurse? You are more than capable of becoming a physician."

"Because a doctor hardly spends any time with patients. They're barely in the room before they're out again and on their way to the next one. The nurses are the ones who actually provide the care most of the time. Honestly, though, I wonder if I'm capable of any of it lately. I don't think there is enough room in my brain for Chemistry. I feel like for everything I put in, something pops out. I wish it felt more relevant to nursing. I sometimes feel like they make us take these courses just to thin out the herd."

"That is a distinct possibility, but I'm rather glad for it. I don't want some idiot who doesn't know the difference between a milligram and a microgram treating me. You can do this, Victor. I'd be happy to help."

* * *

"This is where they wrote "Brain Damage", you know."

Sherlock stared at him blankly.

"'Dark Side of the Moon'… 'the lunatic is on the grass'… this is the grass they were talking about."

"The home of Newton, Darwin, Bacon, Bohr, Turing… and you are impressed by some pop group writing a song about the grass outside of the chapel?"

"Have you heard the song?"

"No"

"Well, remind me to loan it to you later. You might just add Waters to your list. I'll throw some other stuff in too."

* * *

"State function: The state function is independent of the history of the system… a function of the parameters of the system which only depends upon the parameters' values at the endpoints, perhaps as a function of time, or some other external variable," Victor frowned.

"All right. Imagine we are traveling from London back to Norfolk."

"Who's driving?" Victor asked, his face lightening considerably.

"You are, of course."

"Well, all right, then, do continue," the smile was now out in full force.

"You are driving your usual route home, but there is a construction detour. Then we are rerouted back onto the main road, continuing on, until you spot a sign in the distance for one of those horrid medieval fairs, and you drag us off on some side road to a tiny village in search of fake jousting. It's late, so we grab a room in East Dereham for the night…"

"One should definitely not drive while drowsy…"

"… and eventually we get to the Trevor Estate. To measure the distance travelled, it matters what path you take. It is, therefore, path-dependent, and *not* a state function. This is the case with distance, and also with work. A state function, however, is path-independent. We care about where we started and where we end up, but we don't care about what happens in between. For example, how much money you spend on said trip. If you start out with 100 pounds, and we split one of those giant turkey legs at the fair, we now have 90, you call your dad and feed him a sob story about how you are just a poor college student taking your friend-with-a-benefit-or-two with you on holiday, and you need more money to make it home because you spent it all on lubricant in East Dereham…"

"Sherlock…," Victor is blushing, and Sherlock moves back to more comfortable territory. For now, the blush is all the evidence he needs that their relationship is headed in the right direction.

"…and he wires 100 quid to your account, for a total of 190. Then we fill up on petrol and are down to 170. Then we have a friendly little wager for 20 about whether or not you can successfully recall the scientific nomenclature for the next bit of road kill we see, which you lose, and then you bet I can't… name the next band on the radio… and you win it back…this is path-independent, because we don't really care about the ups and downs, the journey, all we care about is what we started with and what we ended up with. That is a state function. Pressure, volume, and internal energy are all path-independent."

"God, I can't wait for our trip..."

"Neither can I."

* * *

"I'm telling you, he will know."

"Fine. Fine. For the whole month, fine. It's just to keep my mind occupied. I don't need it."

"Thank you. I mean, I know you can stop... I've seen you go without for longer…and he's… he sees it from the bench every day. He will know."

"A month with you, I won't be bored. I'm sure there is plenty to do in Donnethorpe. We can… hunt? Fish? Spend time in your room?"

"He'll know that too."

"Wait, you're not saying we shouldn't…"

"Oh no, no, I'm not saying that. Just, we need to be discreet. A bit. I haven't said anything to him. He's, well, he's pretty traditional. I want to tell him- and I will- just, not now. I will write him a letter. I don't want to say it to his face. And I don't want to tell him until we're… I mean we're not…"

"Whatever you're comfortable with, Victor. It's all fine. I'm not going anywhere. And you were right when you said I needed to slow down."

"And I needed to speed up."

"You know that beautiful mouth will keep me happy for a long time to come." What Sherlock doesn't say, because it must be wrong, is that sometimes he thinks he doesn't really want any of it. That trying to generate the stimuli required to drag the response out of his body is exhausting. That what he likes about his time with Victor is simply being with Victor. It sounds disgustingly romantic, and it sounds like he enjoys being used, so he lets the thought go.

Victor leans over, his body pulsing with excitement, and gives Sherlock a passionate kiss. He supposes Victor is a really good kisser, but kissing is certainly not Sherlock's thing. Fortunately, other things Victor can do, and sometimes even does, with his mouth are very much his thing. He thinks of that during the kiss, imagines the sensation of Victor's tongue between his legs, and he manages to return the passion in the form of deeper kisses. Then he seizes control, and spreads the kisses across Victor's chest, finding his way down to his navel, sucking at the hollow, rubbing his cheek against the darker hairs below, until Victor is restless, his body jerking forward as he struggles not to place his hands deep in Sherlock's hair and to guide him where he needs him.

Sherlock knows he won't do it-won't immobilize him-they've navigated around those perilous waters before. Instead, they reach for each other, and Victor laces their fingers together, grabbing tight, while Sherlock closes his eyes and smiles, soft and content. Perfect. He has found a way to make it work. Sherlock does not fool himself, he knows it is because Victor is nervous to give, and Sherlock is nervous to take, but the precarious balance holds.

He observes Victor's every reaction, catalogues his every sound and movement, charts in his mind where he touches and kisses and licks and what the response to each motion is. His mouth is precisely where Victor would have placed it, but Sherlock has moved there of his own accord. He is setting the pace, and it is glorious. When the time comes, when Victor is ready, Sherlock will be able to lose himself to him completely. He imagines what it will feel like to be so far gone, lost in pure sensation, pleasure coming at him from every angle- how amazing that moment will be. For now, he has the beauty of this; he is the conductor of the symphony as Victor hits a crescendo.


	7. The Adventure of James Armitage

"Victor's father led me to my profession. He was a widower, and Victor was his only son. I visited during the break…."

Justice of the Peace Victor Trevor Sr. was, in a word, strong. Both physically and mentally, he seemed solid and respectable. His face showed the marks of more than a few fist fights in his youth, and he remained remarkably fit for a man his age. His complexion was weather-beaten, his hair entirely grey, but his eyes remained sharp and focused; he and Victor shared the piercing shade of blue, but whereas Victor's had certain softness, that aspect was entirely lacking in his father. In spite of his robust appearance, Victor knew his father's health had become uncharacteristically frail in the last few months. The deterioration was disconcerting.

Dinner had been a rather quiet affair, with talk centering on their studies. Victor offered much praise for Sherlock's assistance, while Sherlock brushed it aside as hardly having been necessary. Talk of career paths followed. It had taken Trevor some time to accept his son's having chosen a field traditionally considered feminine; in fact, what had won him over was what he perceived as Victor's practicality; he had chosen a career that required fewer years of study. He would become a fine medical professional in far less time, while doctors could waste years completing their training. Trevor firmly believed Sherlock, in contrast, lacked ambition… his course of study was limited to his whims and seemed without purpose. His first-class mind, however, was readily apparent, and Trevor was pleased to have an audience for his current cases, the ones which he was permitted to discuss, of course.

"Much of it is repetitive," he said. "If you read case studies or court summaries, you will soon discover there is nothing new under the sun."

"That seems to contradict with truth being stranger than fiction," said Sherlock.

"Indeed, it would seem so. The patterns repeat, but occasionally there is something new and interesting. It is my duty to remain neutral until the facts present themselves, but occasionally, those facts are quite bizarre. I have been keeping a journal of sorts. You are welcome to look through it. I am afraid my son holds little interest in criminal matters." Trevor made a gesture towards the rather large bookshelf where the volumes were filed, just below a massive landscape painting. Everything seemed to be on a grand scale.

Sherlock crossed the room and laid his hand lightly upon the first volume. "Was the library selection provided by the former occupant of the house?"

"Why yes, it was," there was a hint of surprise in his voice, but in was kept well in check.

"And the housing staff as well?"

"The estate's former owner decided he preferred city life. I simply retained the staff. The cook was tolerable, and I had no desire to go about searching for good people."

Victor smiled. "Observation and inference, Dad. It's a bit of a specialty with Sherlock," he said, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Go on, tell him how."

"The books within easy reach are travel guides and older editions of novels with themes of adventure- just the thing to fuel a young child's sense of daring, now treasured by an adult who has grown to prefer real life adventure to reading. Of course, there are your journals next to them. The others, filling up the remaining space, appear to be random, poorly categorized and of widely varying taste. These," he waved a long arm towards the left, "are most definitely Victor's, though."

Trevor smiled. "You have a first-rate mind, Mr. Holmes."

"Please, sir, call me Sherlock."

"I told you you would enjoy meeting him, Dad. You thought I was exaggerating when I said he does things like this all the time, right?"

"I doubted even half of it was true. But it is easy enough to test—come now, I'm sure I would make an excellent subject. What can you tell about me, Sherlock?" he said, exuding confidence.

"Well, certainly you have traveled the world."

"That I have."

"You have a particular fondness for the American Southwest.

"Also true." So far these deductions, based on his reading material and decorations, were quite simplistic. He remained unimpressed.

"You've become concerned with health and safety as of late, particularly your personal safety."

At this, Trevor's eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes. There have been some burglaries recently."

"You've studied art extensively. And you were, at one point, friendly with an artist named James Armitage, though you no longer are."

The change in Trevor was instant, and he grew pale enough for Victor to step closer out of concern. "Yes, yes, I did know him some time ago. How—how could… ?"

"I told you!" Victor beamed, and turned back toward Sherlock.

"It is quite simple. The safety concerns are determined by your alarm system by the door; it is new, and you were quite slow in entering the code to disarm it upon entering the house. Your books and art collection are evidence of your travels, of course, and this painting is clearly your original work, bearing your signature. Am I correct in assuming it was your wife who posed?"

Trevor nodded.

"One also doesn't expect to see hand-painted copies in the style of a famous work in the home of someone who hasn't studied art. Your basic admirer would have a print, or, if a hand-painted one, certainly a reproduction of a more famous work. To see a Vermeer that is not actually a Vermeer is a fascinating artistic exercise. " He paused, smiled at Victor, and said, simply "Artists in the family. My grandmother was very proud of her brother's fame." He glanced back to Trevor, "Horace Vernet."

"The frame is new, but it is done with murkier, oil-based paint, to match the style of the old masters. But here- where this small shrub is, in the bottom right corner, this was done recently with a far lesser quality acrylic paint. A work of this quality required great skill and would not be unsigned, and, it in fact isn't unsigned. One can still see, at the correct viewing angle, traces of smeared paint thinner. In darker light, it would be impossible to make out- concealed by the shrub and the removal- so the attempt to obscure the signature was likely done when it was already hanging on the wall. An emotional and impulsive move, to prevent someone from recognizing the name of the artist without completely ruining the work. It can be conjectured from the traces of the remaining letters: 'James Armitage'. It's puzzling. The painting must be of great value, sentimental value, to not have disposed of it entirely, not economic value, for it would have affected it to have it… defaced. You knew Mr. Armitage personally, and had falling out. It is unlikely he was immediate family who would have been likely to visit- a cousin perhaps? Or, formerly, a very close friend?" He raised his eyebrows and looked at Trevor for a reaction.

"Ah, yes. Some things do serve as a reminder to us of our roots, and that we have a choice in the direction of our lives when a path is destructive to one's soul. James was involved in activities no one would be proud of. We parted ways many years ago." This was directed at his son, more a lecture than an answer for Sherlock. "My wife enjoyed the painting, nonetheless, and she was not disturbed by the artist, even though I did not wish to see or speak his name again. Now, how's about some brandy?" he asked, moving closer to the fire.

"Trevor's health was deteriorating each day. By day five, he had collapsed, and Victor called an ambulance. I attempted to stay with Victor for support, but his father insisted a sick man's bedside was no place for a friend, and I cut the visit short and took the train back to London. Victor stayed on to attend to his father's ailing health. He grew steadily worse, and they apparently had several heart-to-heart chats." Sherlock went over to the shelf and pulled out a file that looked crisp and new, though John assumed it must have been at least 10 years old.

"Victor sent me a copy of the letter his father wrote during his first night in the hospital… a sort of bedside confession, if you will. It's in my case notes," he hesitated a moment and said "And, since you will no doubt ask, the answer is yes."

_Victor, I am truly sorry I have never addressed this with you, but I am afraid my time is short. Your friend is wise beyond his years. Sometimes we keep souvenirs not to remember happy times, but to be assured we never forget unhappy ones. Before you were born, before I met Gloria, in fact, I was studying both the law and art. I had been an artist for as long I could remember, following in my father's footsteps, as you well know. When I was 23, I was asked to participate in a local show. It was there I met Michael Hudson, and his wife Martha. _

Martha Hudson? Was that …oh…right ...

_ Martha was vivacious and exceptionally talented at ceramics. Michael organized events. He certainly appeared to be charming- I was to later learn that was only when it served his purpose, and his personality was far darker than I had ever expected. It was at one of Michael's shows that he approached me to do some work for him, restoring some damaged paintings he had discovered while on a trip to Cuba. He frequently travelled there, and would occasionally purchase items for a shopkeeper he knew in the Florida Keys. I paid little attention to the fact that he was likely doing this in defiance of United States embargo laws. Perhaps that was his test of my moral character. By failing, I passed. In any case, my work was good, and he gave me more, increasing the number of my art showings at home as well. When he asked me to paint a work in the style of a lesser-known artist, I never thought he could pass it off as a "discovered work", but apparently he was able to do this twice. He had me sign them with a fake name to get them successfully through customs, and then had someone in the Keys redo the signatures._ _I had considered cutting my ties with the man, as I was entering the field of law, and was very uncomfortable with his dealings. Just as I was set to wash my hands of it all, Martha had introduced me to the love of my life. I spent the forgery money freely, to impress Gloria Scott, and also to complete my education. The irony that my career as a judge was funded with illegal activities is not lost on me. I was able to gradually establish a law practice, and the last time I saw Michael I told him firmly that I had moved on, and wished nothing to do with activities that would compromise my integrity. The last painting I had been working on remained with me. He seemed to accept that._ _When Gloria saw the painting in storage, she… well, your mother loved it and wanted it over the fireplace. Later that afternoon, in a panic, I rushed up to the attic and attempted to remove the signature. The name was different, but it was still most definitely my writing. As I hadn't painted in some time, I was lucky to have found an old rag with linseed oil still embedded in the fabric, and a bit of old paint. She had it framed and placed, as you see it now, always having thought it was my work (which, indeed, it was)._ _Years passed, and the paintings served as reminders of how far I had come, how I had left my past behind. That was, until I saw a man before me in court six months ago. Hudson was before my bench on an assault charge- domestic abuse. I received a note in our old code system at my office, suggesting I find a way to dismiss the case to avoid any scandal. If I did, and if I helped him obtain false documents, he agreed to leave the country. I suspected he was escaping far more crimes, but I did not care. To get a man who held my secrets out of the country, and a half a world away from Martha, seemed to me a good deed. I had presided over the trial of a man named Beddoes, who could provide him with a false identity, and I suggested he contact him. Hudson's trial was dismissed on a technicality._ _The news report on Beddoes' death, along with and a coded note asking for money, is why you saw such a rapid deterioration in my health this week. I am sure my actions have caused far worse crimes than I will ever know._ _Your friend's assessment of me led me to believe he was an agent of Hudson's. I had since thought better of it, and know this is not the case. His powers are remarkable. Perhaps he would be willing to help me restore St. Peter's balance in my favor. I have tried, Victor, to do the right thing. To make the right choices. I ask for your understanding, if I cannot have your forgiveness._

"Victor also wrote that his father would provide me with contact in the Yard who would allow me to participate fully in the investigation, provided I immediately check after the welfare of a Mrs. Martha Hudson in London, as he was concerned for her well being. He knew Hudson was capable of far worse than forgery, and Mrs. Hudson will no doubt attest to that. I was involved in every aspect of the investigation and his subsequent prosecution. Trevor decided to offer up any information freely, convinced the end of his life was near. He had, in fact, died shortly thereafter."

John handed the letter back to Sherlock and nodded. "And Victor?"

"Victor's father had pulled whatever strings he had remaining before his reputation was ruined, getting his son into a rather coveted medical program in the VSO to fight malnutrition in India. Couldn't have been more perfectly suited to him. I never heard from him again."


	8. Astatine

He's writing with his left hand. Your non-dominant hand, in theory, makes you feel more like a child- and the recreation of the awkwardness of childhood is said to have some sort of additional psychological impact. But he has learned to do many things with his non-dominant hand. It is also the one that presses the strings of his violin… he pauses to think of what a violin might look like if it were designed to have fingering with the dominant hand, and it occurs to him for the first time, do left-handed violinists have greater speed and agility? He must research this. Oh, yes. Back to writing with his left hand. One website even warned against doing this sort of thing, as it was "accessing primitive and raw emotions," and it was even suggested not to use this tool as self- therapy. That sounded just enough like a dare to be interesting.

"If you feel your life is colourless, try writing with different coloured pens," another website said. The word "life" was written in red font. He has also learned that he is not a victim, but a survivor. The concept almost makes him laugh, and he considers telling John to revise his notes, changing "victim" to "survivor". John had been careful enough to have written notes on paper instead of typing them into his laptop. Sherlock doesn't have anywhere near the level of computer skills John's 'Q'-addled brain thinks he has. He can't really go into deleted files and muck about and find the originals. Of course he knows people who can, but _he_ doesn't do that sort of thing. Ironically, what he can do easily is take a pencil and lightly rub it across a note-pad, revealing words that were deeply pressed into the paper. Hard pressure…highly emotional reactions. He figures it is helping John to make these assessments privately, and John needs all the help he can get if the wants to continue living with Sherlock. Not having him here is impossible to even conceive of. Impossible to be without what is the closest to love he has ever felt.

So—he won't tell John he needs to improve his terminology.

He is neither a victim, nor a survivor. He is simply a man with memory gaps.

Astatine.

He is searching for something because of an empty space. His mind has a gap in it, like the gaps in the Periodic Table. Mysterious number 85, between Polonium and Radon. All they knew about it was it would theoretically act like iodine. There are other gap elements, some already named, some yet to be discovered. He chose Astatine because he likes the name… astatos in Greek… meaning "unstable." A piece of it would immediately vaporize due to the heat of its own radioactivity. It just wouldn't do to formulate a theory on his psyche based on the properties of Californium.

The empty space must be filled with something. Nature abhors a vacuum. Right now it is filled with emotions- buzzing around like tiny shadows that disappear when he turns on the light. Vague feelings, of being young, of not being in control. When there are no revelations from the attempt at left-handed writing, he is not surprised. He could delve into therapy full force- hypnosis; but the thought of someone peering inside his head, mucking about, is intolerable. Not because he has enemies, which he does, so there is no one he would trust, but because his mind is all he is. It is far too intimate.

He has seen hundreds of crime scenes. He knows he could handle the information. Could solve the puzzle of his own self if given the facts. He has tried conjecture, but it is abhorrent... he could plug in a million 'what if's and all of them would, of course, be plausible, but what would be probable? It shouldn't matter. What matters is here and now, and there is nothing that will prevent him from doing what he wants, no ghost from another time that can control him or undermine his force of will.

The last case had been a particularly gruesome one, too late for three of the victims, barely in time to save the fourth, found chained to a bedpost. Not a victim, he corrects himself, a survivor. What that child would give to be able to wipe out even the smallest bit of what Sherlock was trying so hard to make himself remember. John still had nightmares from what he'd witnessed, lived, in Afghanistan. Maybe it's a gift, a blessing he gave to himself? No. No, it wasn't. He could handle it. He must have been young; to think that erasing it would make it not have happened.

He stops abruptly when he realizes that he has crossed a new threshold. He is tired of this. Bored of this searching. A part of his mind has suggested he manufacture something to fill in the space, just so he can stop. Something that is the right size, shape, color… he drops his head to the desk. Now it is over. If a part of his mind wants to make his own puzzle piece, he will have no ability to trust whatever it is he might find. This is a waste of time. He is furious. Why is he doing this? Why is he poking around in empty boxes?


	9. Reactions

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer to do this with someone more qualified?"

"For the last time, John, I want to do this… to see what information I can recover. I trust you. You understand me better than anyone I know, and I have absolutely no idea how someone could possibly be better qualified. How do I begin?"

They sit on the sofa, an even greater distance apart than usual. It doesn't really matter what's on (John is determined to watch it anyway), but it happens to be a nature program about snakes; ever since a killer had managed to use distilled venom as a weapon, Sherlock had shown a marked interest in all creatures poisonous. This time, however, Sherlock is turning his observational skills toward John, who has given up all hope of them both becoming absorbed in the program. John turns to face him.

"The idea is, we map out your comfort zone. We step it up a bit, until we find the level where you start to get uncomfortable. That's where our focus needs to be."

"I've never found sitting on the sofa an especially traumatic experience, John." Sherlock grins; John chuckles.

"Well, I suppose we could move a little closer," John says, and as he slides, so does Sherlock. Their thighs are touching.

After a three minute interval, during which a snake of a nondescript variety eats an egg, John says "hand" and places his hand, palm up, on his own leg. Sherlock resists the urge to say he knows it's a hand. He's not trying to mock the process, really, he isn't, but he wants to cut to the chase. He takes John's hand. And it is fine. Of course.

More snakes, and now there are spiders… far less intriguing. After a few minutes, Sherlock looks at John and says, simply, "Should I kiss you?"

John lets go of Sherlock's hand. "Let's not, um, let's not move quite so quickly. Let's keep it methodical," as he puts his arm around Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock doesn't feel anything particularly bad, but he doesn't feel anything particularly igood/i either, and it feels vaguely strange. They don't do this. He doesn't do this with anyone, this almost casual physicality. John senses the awkwardness and examines him a bit more closely.

"It's fine, it's just not something I would normally do."

John considers this a bit before saying, "Right. Hair."

Touching his hair is fine, more than fine, it feels quite nice, actually. Sherlock decides to reciprocate and finds lightly touching John's hair to be somewhat more pleasurable than expected. John pulls him closer in, hand sliding out of his hair to gently caress a spot at the back of his neck, and watches Sherlock tense up ever-so-slightly and then relax.

"Now," Sherlock says, as he moves in for a kiss. He starts with a closed peck, then presses his lips longer, and then they part. They're kissing, and John can feel his body responding. Sherlock's kisses are deep and languid and… practiced, efficient, almost- and they have the intended effect. John is most definitely aroused, and he breaks off from the kiss to examine Sherlock more closely. He opens his eyes, somewhat reluctantly, to find Sherlock is gazing at him.

"No problems," Sherlock states, as he moves his lithe body over to straddle John, returning to actively kissing him, his tongue plunging deeper into John's mouth. It is perfect. Sherlock's groin is on John's thigh, grinding steadily, rhythm synchronized with his tongue, his growing erection catching up with John's. Then John holds up a hand, signifying a stop. "Wait," he says, "we need to go back a tick." Sherlock's expression reveals the tiniest bit of emotion. John only sees it because he is looking for it…a mixture of hurt, disappointment and shock. Then they are side by side again. _God, it was so damn good_, but something in the dynamic had most definitely shifted. John just can't let them go barreling on past it.

"It's…well…we're not going to have sex, Sherlock. We're trying to find the point where… well… you shouldn't be having sex."

Sherlock shoots him a look, more concentrated venom than any spider. "What you mean is _you're_ not going to have sex with me. I can have sex whenever, wherever and with whomever I please."

John is taken aback, but recovers fairly quickly. "Yeeees. Yes, you can. Now, the goal in this process is not to…"

"That's it?"

"What?"

"That is all you are going to say… 'yes, you can'? And then you're going back to working with me."

"Well, you're right. You can do whatever you damn well please. And that has got nothing to do with it, Sherlock. No matter what your relationship with me is, I will help you figure this out."

"You're not going to… you're going to help me even if I go off in search of an interesting stranger?"

"I'm not doing this for me. I'm not doing this because I want us to have a more... intimate... physical relationship. Not that I'm not enjoying myself, mind you. I'm doing this because you need an objective observer, and I care about you. I just want you to, well, I want to help you through this, is all."

Sherlock takes a full minute to process, scanning John all the while, then breaks the tension, confessing "You're right, I skipped ahead. It seemed the thing to do."

"And you got more than a little defensive in the process. It's OK. It's very important to know where we were at when that happened… the point you felt the need for greater control. I think it was here…"

John places a hand on the back of his neck. This time there is a visible flinch. They both look concerned.

John chooses his words carefully. "What is it you think I'm going to do next?"

"Draw me in. Pull me closer. And I can't let you... I..." Sherlock puts John's hand lightly on his chest and John can feel his heart beating rapidly._ Oh my god—all we've done so far… it was never arousal, it was panic_. Forcing his mind away from Sherlock's all-too-ready-made excuse for his experience the night he met Victor, John struggles to keep his expression neutral. The epiphany still feels like a physical force.

"I thought I was meant to be the one hiding things, John" says Sherlock, quietly.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I thought you..."

"Don't apologize. I don't even know if I can tell when one stops and the other begins. I don't even try. I just, use it. To get to the next stage."

"You mean you don't have arousal, you just… ride the panic?"

"Until it becomes arousal, yes."

"Well, this is it, then. This is where the work needs to begin."

* * *

It has been weeks. Weeks of normal life… normal for them, in any case. Trailing killers, a stolen manuscript, a "missing person". Then "sessions", as Sherlock has come to think of them. John's hand moving from hair to neck and back again. The routine is dull, but the volatile mix of feelings he is incapable of accurately describing isn't. It is finally lessening... better. He feels calmer. Nonreactive. The panic is gone and is replaced by a void. It is oddly disappointing.


	10. Plunge

It's his heartbeat he notices first because it's impossible not to and it's impossibly fast and, then it's his breathing, and in tandem they pull his awareness deeper into his body. He clenches his fists in frustration, or perhaps just to test his level of somatic control… and then his stomach and just. Breathe. Think.

This doesn't make sense at all, it just doesn't. He has seen so much of death's handiwork. Corpses: men, women, children… blood inches-deep on the floor and remained unaffected. This is not even a gory death, and even if it was, there's no corpse in front of him. That it is beyond logic makes it even more unsettling. But there was a trickle of discomfort which rapidly became a flood... a flood consisting of nothing but heartbeat and air. Too much heartbeat and too much air and... feel soooo sick. And chair, and …

"Sherlock? Are you…" John rushes to his side and fights off the urge to hold him, keeping guard an arm's length away. He tries to piece things together. The death of Tommy Cooper was over thirty years ago, and while the circumstances were certainly unusual, no one had suspected foul play. The article on infamous deaths had been an entertaining bit of sensationalized writing, seemed relevant enough to their interests, and had, in fact, momentarily captured Sherlock's attention. Perhaps there was something suspicious about the comedian's on-stage death that the detective had picked up on where no one else had, but Sherlock is not sitting with his hands steepled under his chin, processing… he is unsteadily reaching for a chair. Something else then. Something must have been building before John began reading aloud, something obvious he has missed yet again. _Maybe in the last case, with the red… when's the last time he ate something besides buttered toast?_ And that's when Sherlock does it. He abruptly plunges himself into John's arms; John instinctively wraps his arms around him firmly. But it's not helping, nothing's getting better, and, it looks to be getting worse, much worse, and …it's "Sherlock! What the bloody hell!"

"Come on John grab me hold onto me tightly!" Sherlock's words are piercing, running together as a single thought, determined to push though the barrier of his lips and travelling through the air like a bullet. Defying physics, he has managed to fold his whole body into John's, head tucked into his neck, his larger frame collapsing inward, forcing what started out as a reflexive touch of reassurance into something far more invasive.

"Sherlock, you…" he tries to break the hold and seeks out Sherlock's eyes for some form of reassurance, but the normally penetrating gaze is closed off, eyes squeezed shut, and Sherlock's grip is both powerful and fueled by desperation. There is shaking and there is a stifled sob and a barely audible "no no no", but it's not Sherlock who's breaking down… the sounds are John's. He is louder now. "No, I will not be used like this, I will not be used to recreate your... No! "

"But… John, it's there… it's right there… and," he is barely getting out words in between labored breaths… "I can almost get to it… I see it and… I need to go deeper into… I need to see it John!" he cries out. It is the first time John has ever seen Sherlock hoping to lose a battle with his emotions. John breaks away from his grip, horrified.

"No. I can't do this Sherlock. I can't watch you make yourself break and I can't make you break and… I've seen this before," John shakes his head tersely. "I just can't."

Sherlock has manipulated his instinct to comfort, warped it for his own purpose, and now John's hurt is tempered with fury and he can't stand to be in the same room and he can't leave Sherlock alone and it is all impossibilities, all can'ts. He is frozen. He _has_ seen this before, seen a man break down right in front of him, but never before has he been the cause. And this is what happens every time Sherlock has sex, isn't it? He's causing this now. He's doing this damage and he didn't realize it and no no no we can't both be doing this to each other we just can't. He needs strength, reaches into himself for it.

"If you want to push these buttons, Sherlock, _fine_, but you do not... _do not_… have my permission to con me into pushing them for you."

Sherlock is the one to leave. He mutters "Bart's," and heads down the stairs with a steady, even pace.

John is grateful.

* * *

***Author's Note: Tommy Cooper was a British comedian who died of a heart attack in 1984 while performing on live television. Millions saw his death. Since his stage persona was a bumbling performer who constantly had things go wrong with his tricks, many, including his assistant (who smiled at him when he collapsed), thought it was all part of the act.**


	11. Observation

A quick glance at his phone reveals the air temperature is 12 degrees. Just barely. That is why he is shivering, as he opens the door and heads outside. Bart's. Molly should have … something … for him to work with. She looks up from a fresh corpse laid out on the slab, and smiles weakly. "Nothing interesting today, I'm afraid." Sherlock wasn't expecting "interesting". Wasn't expecting luck, fate, chance, whatever it was, to have favored him. "There is one with an interesting tattoo, though..." she trailed off. "Looks to have been changed, I think?"

Ah. Molly was becoming more observant.

Occasionally, Sherlock would examine a particularly interesting tattoo- determine why it was modified (usually a change of lovers), what the original design was, when it was completed, and (to the best of his ever-increasing ability) the artist. Good. Not exactly a challenge, but at least a suitable diversion. Good.

Molly moved to the far end of the room, opened up one of a vast number of seemingly identical metal drawers, and slid out a man in his late twenties- then abandoned the body and returned to her work.

She looked up at Sherlock far too often. Twice she opened her mouth, only to close it again quickly in silence. Sherlock frowned, and examined the body more closely. The probability of her knowing someone who had had an experience similar to his was high, though he was sure she was unaware of the precise nature of his problem. Only that something was wrong and she clearly wanted to be of assistance… somehow. How does one do that? How could anyone possibly help? He moved around the cold slab, turning his back towards her. He could hear the platitudes rattling off in his head- even more trite than John had been, if that was humanly possible. "Your body knows. Your heart knows." Had he cringed when John had said that? Even now, with Molly stealing furtive glances at him, he can't seem to keep the smirk from appearing. He is glad he thought to turn away; she is not as unobservant as he had previously thought. At least not today.

_Listen to your heart. What does your heart want to tell you? Well, the tricuspid and pulmonary valve are content, but the mitral and aortic valves are a tad annoyed at the extra work they have had to do today… far more than the usual 100,000 beats per day, and they wouldn't have appreciated the extra flood of epinephrine, but otherwise all was fine. The septum is likely still annoyed that its shape is so completely misrepresented by the general population. "Heart-shaped" indeed. Surely, the whole structure, a model of tireless blood-pumping efficiency, is annoyed that it ever became associated with something as ridiculous as love. Since I'm assigning communication skills to arbitrary body parts, might as well check and see what my dick has to say at the moment. What? Nothing? Good. Anyone else have anything urgent to report?_

He cuts into the top layer of the skin on the surface of the tattoo with unexpected force. It is easy to observe where the original artwork, a heart with initials in it, had been fashioned into a phoenix's wing… the letter "H" transformed into part of a feather. _Rather skillfully done; Jerri's handiwork?_

The symbolism of removing layers to examine hidden scaring beneath is annoying, the task is far too simple, and he is losing interest quickly. Bodies in general are bothering him. Bodies and their needs and wants and the care they require to remain functioning. He had done his part. Fed it. Gave it rest when required. Sexual release when it demanded it. And it still wasn't living up to its end of the bargain. One minute he was listening to a rather entertaining, if simplistic, account of some of the more unusual deaths in recent years, the next he was plunged into a nonsensical panic.

He removes another layer of the inky skin, and thinks of Henry Knight and of his own experience at Dewar's Hollow. This time, there were no drugs in his system to warp his perception, augment his fears. A simple heart attack. He might have seen Cooper's performance when he was a child, but he doubts it strongly. Even if he had, he would have been well under 5, the age when most early memories form. He needs a sounding board. He needs John. If John won't help him force his memories to the surface, maybe there is another way. He closes the metal drawer abruptly (shutting the scalpel and a small towel in with the body), gives a cursory mutter of thanks at Molly, and heads back home.

* * *

John looks remarkably composed, as if he had worked very hard to have achieved it. His laptop is closed and off-kilter, showing signs of having been shut abruptly (_no doubt it had been_), but the man himself sits placidly by the fire, reading a spy novel. He has not gotten far (_rereading_). He glances up briefly at Sherlock, then goes back to his book, (_the same paragraph_).

"I need your help, John."

John looks up, wearily, still weighing what he was and was not willing to do… how far he would push himself.

"Just to talk. That is all," Sherlock says, and sits in the chair opposite. "I know what happened. But I still don't understand why."

John lets out a barely perceptible sigh. "Traumatic events don't always make sense. Your brain can change things… to accept them more easily."

"Like creating a hound. I know. But that made sense. A nine-year-old boy witnesses the attack of a family member and transforms the perpetrator from a man to a monster. This," he shakes his head slowly, "does not make sense."

"When did it start?"

"While you were reading aloud."

John glances over at the paper, still on the table. He decides against picking it up.

"When was the last time you had eaten something? It could have been just a physical reaction based on your blood sugar level."

"No, no, it was after I had had toast. I was reacting to your words, to what you were reading. I had been listening carefully, wondering if the details would be presented accurately within the context of such utter pap. I was comparing the writer's descriptions with the facts- concerning the cases I already knew."

John smiles. "And were they? Accurate?"

"More or less. I didn't know the details of the Tommy Cooper case, but I had heard that many people saw it live. But I couldn't have. Well, to be precise, I could have seen it occur, but I would have been 3 years and 3 months old. There is no way it would have been of special significance to me. Even if I did witness the event, I would not have known what death even meant. I would not have known he was dying."

Sherlock's anxiety is still palpable, but John can't gauge if he is remembering what had happened earlier, is frustrated by his lack of understanding, or is being triggered by the discussion itself. He reflexively shifts forward in his chair. Sherlock's body tightens.

"Yes, you were far too young to have been affected by the event. Anyway, no one knew he was dying. Even people who knew what a heart attack looked like. It seemed to be all part of his act. You can…" John stops. He isn't going to say that you can actually see the recording of his death online. Sherlock would no doubt want to watch it, and…

"I'm sure it is still available for viewing. It might help, but I already know the details. My reaction was from the description, clearly not a memory of the event itself."

"Flashbacks are… odd," John says. It reminds Sherlock all too clearly of their first case together, when he had asked what he would do if he thought he was dying. "They can be triggered by a sense memory, like a scent. A vague feeling of déjà vu. Or it can be the repetition of something you did before or after the event. Like…" he pauses, reminding himself Sherlock isn't fragile, can handle these types of discussions. Hell, he'd even tried to trigger a reaction just to mine it for possible clues. "Like in the abstract I just read online. A victim (_survivor_, Sherlock's mind corrects) forced to perform oral sex had issues with the physical sensation of brushing her teeth and tongue… because she had to do that after the assault." John readies himself to retrieve the paper. "I'll read it to you again."

"I doubt it will help. I won't feel it a second time. Not when I am occupied with thinking about it, looking for a reaction. In any case, I can remember the point when it started."

"It was Tommy Cooper?"

"Yes. Of that I am certain. He died on stage. Crowds were watching him and," Sherlock is lost in thought. Eventually, he looks back at John.

"Voyeurism? Being watched? Maybe being filmed?" John offers, keeping his tone steady and even.

"Not the performance. Not being on stage. That... that the people there… his assistant… that they thought it was part of the act." The anxiety is written all over his face, but Sherlock struggles for detachment. "Cooper knew, John. He knew he was dying. He knew something was horribly wrong. And yet…"

John follows Sherlock's train of thought, thinks he sees where it's headed, and struggles not to interrupt by word or gesture. He knows Sherlock needs to come to this conclusion himself.

"It's not just the fact that people saw him die, John. It's that people saw him die, and he tried to… he tried to let them know something was wrong and they didn't see it. Worse than not seeing it… they did see it. And thought it was... right. Thought it was the way things were supposed to be, but it, wasn't…" The unsteadiness he had been struggling to keep reigned in was rapidly being replaced by anger, and his speech grew faster. "People were looking right at him, people who should have known, who should have saw, who knew the routine. They must have thought it was some variation of him portraying a bumbling performer, but the people who knew him, the observant people. They should have known it wasn't fine. But he didn't. Why didn't he notice, John? Why didn't he see the signs? He sees what I see, more, even, he should have known, he could have stopped it. Now he is worried, now he keeps surveillance, but then… then he couldn't be bothered to get off his lazy arse and open his big, fat, mouth and tell someo…" He stopped, silent.

John wants to simultaneously hold him and give him space. Wants to provide the answers. Why people are in denial about things they don't expect, can't comprehend. How siblings can still not notice things, things like a slow slide into alcoholism, because children are children, no matter how brilliant. And seeing does not mean understanding. Or knowing what to do. But to say this would sound like justification for the people who had failed him. For John's own guilt. So he says nothing. Offers to make some tea and sit here with him for as long as he is needed, and to wait in case, just in case, he decides he does need a hug, or a touch, or something, at least.

The offer for tea is accepted. When he returns with the cup, Sherlock hesitates, then rests his head in the curve of John's shoulder, created by his outstretched arm.


	12. The Worst Man in London

John stared blankly at the keyboard. Normally, a clever title popped right out of his head; it was the first thing he thought of, usually even before opening the laptop. Not this time. Must be because there was so much about this case he was still processing.

Just before Christmas, he had seen Sherlock essentially let a jewel thief, a first-time-offender, go free… balancing the scales of justice and karma simply by returning the stolen gem to its rightful owner. He had muttered something about the police doing their own work for a change, and later claimed it was a bit of "Tis the Season"-style forgiveness. _Fat chance, that._ And he'd seen him sympathize with a murderer out for revenge on his lover's killer. Hell, Sherlock had even said privately, after the case was over, that if he was in that situation he might have done the same. The change of heart, this newfound sense of, what was it… compassion?, was disconcerting. It was as if Sherlock was trying on sentiment for size and not quite sure how it fit.

Just when John thought he was capable of understanding the workings of Sherlock's mind… eventually, anyway… the case they'd just finished, that he was now attempting to write up, turned it on its head. Why was it this new, compassionate Sherlock, who had been so kind toward these transgressors against justice, turned all of his wrath on the blackmailer Charles Augustus Milverton?

True, his client had come to Sherlock in tears, desperate for his help, but the "old" Sherlock was not one to show much sympathy for a person being blackmailed. After all—they did the deed. Someone found out. Pay up. It had certainly been his first course of action when Mycroft had sought his help dealing with a certain Ms. Irene Adler. A large part of John was inclined to agree. _Of all the cases this year, Eva Blackwell trying to avoid the consequences of her actions, refusing to simply be honest, wins the award for Least Deserving of My Sympathy._ Sherlock ignored this. He had turned all his considerable vehemence toward Milverton, calling him the worst man in London.

It wasn't the first time John felt like he was missing something, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. Again. _Even that thought is déjà vu._ He redoubled his efforts. While Sherlock pieced actions together without much thought to motivation, John wanted, needed to understand. _So much of this blackmail business- hiding who you really are from the world. The more people hide, the more they judge._ Perhaps the reverse was true; the less Sherlock was hiding, the less he felt the need to condemn? Leading to greater sympathy for his clients? But Milverton trapped people using their past, and Sherlock was struggling to prove that his past wouldn't be allowed to dictate his present anymore.

_OK, start the story at the end- fill in the rest later_…. after all, he had plenty of time. He still wasn't sure if this one could ever see the light of day, considering it was essentially a confession to burglary. It was exhilarating just thinking about it, though, and more than a bit melodramatic- their time "on the wrong side of the law". The cause was relatively noble, but still a far cry from lawbreaking in self-defense, or even from the patriotic bit of breaking-and-entering for the sake of retrieving the Parrington plans. Nor was it gaining access through disguise, ferreting out the location of a mobile phone. _Black clothing and masks… breaking into the estate under cover of darkness… the two of us hiding behind a curtain, seconds away from being discovered…_

While hiding in Milverton's office, Sherlock had held him back, thwarting his doctor's instinct to rush to the aid of a dying man. John had felt more than mere restraint in the gesture. There was security conveyed in the touch- comfort. So often he had kept Sherlock safe, and now he was returning the favor. The adrenaline slowly subsided, and they both seemed to suddenly breathe again before grinning at each other like madmen as they retrieved papers from a dead man's safe. _Keeping pace with those long legs, scaling the garden wall, kicking the grasping hand off of my ankle. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through our veins. Just the two of us, against the rest of the world._

It was more than adventurous, it was downright romantic.

_Best not to start there, then._ Surely any reader would see it, read between the lines. Maybe start earlier, when Sherlock sprung his engagement to Milverton's maid, Agatha, on him. He very nearly took the piss, worried that all Sherlock's work at opening himself up to being able to truly receive affection had led him to actually respond to someone's advances. It was only a few seconds till John came to his senses, though it felt like far longer. It had been ridiculous to ever think Sherlock could have fallen in love so quickly with this Agatha woman.

After John had chastised him for playing with her emotions (carefully sidestepping how he had played with his as well), and Sherlock had assured him that there was someone waiting in the wings who was using the "engagement" as motivation to finally win her once and for all, there was an awkward silence. Sherlock was the one to break it, opening up to him, confessing just how destructive he had found faking a relationship to gain knowledge of the household.

His issue wasn't what John had originally thought, that it was difficult and damaging to copy the emotional and physical responses of someone caught in a whirlwind romance (thinking of Sherlock and Agatha snogging and groping on the grounds of the property made John cringe on several levels). What had gotten to him most, Sherlock admitted, was not how hard it had been, but how easy. Deception, conjuring up emotional and physical reactions to get what he wanted, had been second nature, a way of life. And it still was.

Sherlock had reluctantly acknowledged the irony to himself, and finally confessed it to John; he must be in love with him, because he wasn't playing the game, wasn't acting like it. If Sherlock was ever flirting with someone, it was for a purpose. _With me, he doesn't._ _And that's good… right?_

His mind had drifted far from the blog now. They had been continuing with what he thought of as the desensitization process, and John was confident it was helping. It seemed to be. The panicky responses were all but gone now, and he would never flinch or seem distressed by John's touch, but there was no move on Sherlock's part to initiate anything between them. Well, not exactly nothing. Occasionally, Sherlock would impulsively grab his hand, squeeze, and release it in some form of appreciation, or put his arm around his shoulder and shake him a bit in excitement, but when it came to overtly sexual advances, he just didn't make them.

There were times when John felt like he was nothing but a big, comfy pillow while they were watching telly on the couch, or that touching Sherlock was rather like petting a giant cat. It was…nice enough. John had worked hard to convince Sherlock that his touch was OK, that it wasn't going to set off a chain reaction. Now, John had to learn that a lack of touch was OK, too, and he wasn't much liking this lesson. Sherlock's fear had been a spark, without it there seemed to be no energy to channel. John felt a creeping sense of dread, because for all Sherlock had said about touch feeling like rolling down a hill, powerless, leading to its inevitable conclusion, John felt like he craved more of that touch. Wanted to tumble down that hill… together, laughing all the way. Instead, if he felt the urge to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair, he knew that was all it would ever be. Fingers in hair. The progression just didn't happen naturally, and when he realized just how much he wanted it to, well, he felt horrible. And the worst part… Sherlock was Sherlock. He knew all this.

A few days ago, after a bit of couch cuddling, Sherlock had suggested a trip to the bedroom, even though there was clearly no arousal on his part. A one-sided offer born of pity, all because John couldn't keep his lustful feelings to himself. No thanks. Not what he wanted out of sex. He wanted to give as much as he got, maybe even more. That was when he felt most fulfilled, not being 'taken care of'.

"No, it's fine," he had said. And he tried to mean it.

* * *

Author's Note: Yes, I used Sherlock's quote from the Season Three clip. The words are not my own, but it seemed to convey what John was thinking and feeling so perfectly I just felt compelled to use it. Now would be a good time to say that none of these characters are my own, it's not for profit, I don't own any of them, and all that stuff, because I was about to write "so, sue me" and I realized that is not really what I should be saying right now.


	13. Infinity

"I opened one of the boxes last night."

The newspaper collapsed onto itself as John peered across the top, scrutinizing Sherlock's face for any clue of what was to come. Sherlock did the same. There was no hiding from that gaze. John knew he could read every bit of his uncertainty, as Sherlock smiled thinly, tentatively.

"There was another box in it," he said.

John let the paper drop to his lap, closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. Maybe he sighed a little. Maybe he didn't. He wasn't sure.

"It's all right. I think it's funny."

John just stared.

"I'm not laughing now, but I did. No need to open any more."

Suddenly, a vivid image came to him, opening a Matryoshka-doll-style collection of endless boxes. As ridiculous as the sight was, he couldn't bring himself to smile. There was nothing so complicated as Sherlock Holmes's mind, and he wondered if Sherlock's subconscious had planned for this... had anticipated Sherlock would be bored opening box after box and give up, or if it was meant to be a test of his determination to see his own case through.

"John, I had a math instructor who had explained the concept of infinity thusly... if I move towards you," he stopped to take a step forward, "I will reach you in a certain amount of time. If I move towards you by halves, cutting the distance between us in half with each step," he did so, carefully measuring his stride, "I will never reach you. The space between us will get infinitely smaller, but the gap will never close."

John fought the swell of emotion, fought to remind himself it was the boxes they were talking about, just the boxes, not them. Sherlock looked up and met John's eyes. _Damn_.

The smile flickered again. "It's not without its charm, my little memory safe. It tells me quite a lot, actually. He taught me the concept of infinity when I was 8."

"Was it him?"

"It is certainly a possibility. But I am merely using that knowledge as a means of assigning a theoretical timeline. At 5, I was rather fascinated with burning paper- the way it curled in the fireplace, the colors of the flame. On the writing desk, there were papers that smelled of vinegar. I used to write letters to Mycroft in vinegar- spy games, invisible ink- when he left for University. I was 10."

He sat heavily in his chair. "I don't know if all of it is related to this, of course. I'm still not entirely convinced I haven't been deleting random, unnecessary things. The point is, I didn't store it away with the intention of my future-self returning to it later, so either I didn't know the details, or they didn't make sense to me, given what I had already accepted as truth."

John nodded. He could see how it might not compute. Brilliant as he was, at one point, however inconceivable it sometimes seemed, Sherlock had been a child- his brain still forming, unable to process certain aspects of reality. He would not let himself fall into the trap of seeing children as small, inexperienced adults.

They were quiet for some time; neither had anything to add. Eventually, they fell back into their morning routine, with Sherlock checking the laptop and John readying for work. As John was about to leave, Sherlock rose and hesitantly offered a chaste kiss goodbye. John accepted it.

"I'm sorry, John. This aside... I know it is a huge thing to put aside, but, all the same… this aside… I just can't feel that. I know how long it's been. I wait for it to build. It will, but for now it is simply not there, and I can not manufacture it. That does not mean when I offer myself to you it is not sincere. You need to take me at my word and stop treating me like a hurt child."

John snapped to his own defense, the memory of Sherlock clinging to him, desperate, still fresh. "But you are a hurt child. You are and were, and it is a part of you, and I will not be the one to ask you for something you don't want to give. Something you can't do."

"I can. I will. If I say I can, you have to believe me. I can give you this, even if I don't need to. I will be fine. It is my choice."

"No, you can't!" he said reflexively. Then with a greater control, calm, he repeated, "No. You can't. It would be for me, not you. It is selfish beyond comprehension. I will not take this, when you don't want it."

"It is a gift you have earned…"

"It is not a gift! It is not a _gift_ that you _give_ to me. This is something that belongs to you. And it's also, whether you want to bring this into the picture or not, something someone _took_. Without permission." Sherlock broke eye contact. John continued. "It is about a connection between us, and if it's not there, it won't work."

Sherlock snapped back, eyes like focused lasers. "John! I am an adult. I control my actions. I can find a way to give you the things you need. Not want. Need. Your emotions and your sexuality are an integrated whole; do you think I do not know that that is how it is _supposed_ to be? How humans were _designed_? Bonding this way is a biological imperative, the chemicals," he was pacing now, "it makes sense. The drive without the emotion, the emotion without the drive... that is not the way it..."

"A variation, Sherlock," John interrupted. "A variation which may or may not work, based on adaptation. It's still about biology, but it's not all about procreation. Not anymore. The human race is spread out all over the bloody planet, it will survive, it can take care of itself now. No need to wire people to want to have sex just so the population continues to increase. No reason to have sex only for procreation, or when fertile, or of childbearing age, or of different sexes, or… it is obsolete science, Sherlock! But what I want—what I want is the connection, yes. Do I like it to be physical? Yes. Yes, I do. I bloody like how sex feels, OK? And how you feel… felt. But you were not really there, Sherlock. And now, now you are. Enough to know what you really want. And, just as important, what you really don't want. And that is not for me to tamper with."

John knows this has nothing to do with him. Knows somehow. Before they came to this point in time, before he knew anything about this aspect of Sherlock's past, he knew Sherlock was not interested in sex. The healing process had made him far more healthy. He wasn't using sex as a tool, wasn't seeing it all as a means of manipulation anymore. But what did they have left? There must be something they can share. Something they both wanted.

"If you keep moving towards me by halves, Sherlock, you will never get there. But if I move towards you by halves, at the same time, then the reference point changes. Each time I am moving, closer than you thought I was. If we both move towards each other, we will overlap. It will work. It's not about evolution. It's not about biology. It's about mathematics. It's about physics."


	14. Common Ground

Tetanus booster.

Possible food allergy- refer for blood work.

Still no text.

Lunch

School physical for rugby team

Still no text.

Ear infection- paracetamol for pain, return in 4 days if no improvement.

**We need milk. -S  
****I just bought some on Wednesday! We need more already?-J**

**No. I just thought I'd say something typical to put your mind at ease. -S**

**Good. Thank you. -J  
**

**Should we talk now? -J**

**No. Sarah is about to peer over your shoulder and I think you would prefer not to have her privy to the details of our conversation. -S**

[pending: How did you know she wa]

**The clinic is slow and she was bored. -S**

[pending: How did you know she wa]

[ How did you know she w]

[ How did you know she]

[ How did you know sh]

[ How did you know s]

[ How did you know]

[ How did you know it]

[ How did you know it was]

**Because it's not flu season yet; it's a Friday, so no one is seeking a medical slip to get out of work tomorrow and no surgeries are scheduled in hopes of a long weekend; and furthermore, you had enough time to recall precisely when you last purchased milk. -S  
**

**We will talk when you come home. -S**

* * *

Not long after his last text, John was sent home early. Heading up the stairs he heard the ending strains of violin music. Coming into the sitting area, he saw Sherlock close his case and move to the sofa. Sherlock had made tea. Sherlock. Had. Made. Tea. John slowly lowered himself onto the cushions. He tried to surreptitiously examine the cup before raising it to his lips.

"Don't look so shocked, John. I am perfectly capable of doing things."

John put the teacup down. "I never said you weren't capable."

"Innuendo is tiresome. Can we do this quickly?"

"I don't know. I'll try. I think you know what I'm comfortable with."

"Do I?"

John had always had the basic assumption that Sherlock was able to deduce everything about him. Even without product in his hair or green underwear, Sherlock had managed to figure out he was, to some degree, bisexual, and...

"I mean aside from the obvious..."

John smiled, squinted ever so slightly, and waited for the Sherlockian List of Obvious Things that no one but Sherlock could ever... "that you find me attractive, that you are comfortable having sex with men, and reasonably uncomfortable doing so when consent is in any way compromised." Hmmm. Those _were_ rather obvious deductions, weren't they?

"I can't tell what you're comfortable with, John. I only know things I can observe. It really isn't mind reading."

"Well, it feels like it sometimes. A lot of times. Uh.. OK. I... I am OK with sexual intercourse."

"Anal penetration?"

John wasn't sure why talking about these things was harder than actually doing them.

"Yes. And oral sex and... manual? Manual sex. Hand jobs."

"Bondage?"

"Um, sure? I mean I'd try whatever you wanted to, if you..."

Sherlock glared, then dropped his voice to a rumble and drew out the word slowly for emphasis, "As...phyx...i...o...phil...i...a?"

"No."

Sherlock grinned in triumph, having proven his point, and returned to his normal vocal pattern.

"Rimming?"

John tried to picture this for a moment, took a deep breath... "I don't think so. Have you... have you tried these things?"

"Masochism?"

"No."

"Are you Submissive? Dominant?"

"Contrary to popular opinion, not everybody in the service gets off on ordering people around. Or being ordered around."

John could swear he saw the beginnings of a stifled eye roll. "OK, so I'm pretty boring. Fine. I would try anything that is not... hazardous. Or risks some type of contamination. I would just be thinking about that while I was doing it and... and it would be distracting. I mean I've been tested and all that, and... have you?" Sherlock nodded. "Yeah, but I mean not breathing, or cross-contamination is not something I want to have running through the back of my mind and by the way when did this turn into Let's Harass John For Being So Vanilla? I'm.. I mean I figured you'd know about these things but..."

This time he finished the abated eye roll. "Of course I know about 'these things'. Those with a deviance they are ashamed of might be willing to take greater risks in finding partners for that activity, or in concealing it from loved ones they are certain would reject them if they knew. Autoerotic Asphyxiation is often mistaken for suicide, especially when a spouse or a parent finds the body and attempts to spare everyone embarrassment by cleaning up the scene. Partnered Asphyxiation is far safer. Unless, of course, you're having an affair and your spouse intends to kill you, like when Sada Abe killed Kichizo Ishida with her kimono sash in 1936 and later cut off his penis and testicles and carried them in her purse. Sentiment."

John chuckled. "OK. No asphyxiation, and no affairs."

Sherlock sighed. "It just would be easier."

John looked up, and blinked several times.

"Easier if you had something more, unusual, that you had a preference for. It would feel more balanced."

"Oh," said John. "Because you like something unusual?"

"Because I am unusual. It would help if you weren't expecting a certain level of normalcy."

Silence.

"Well, I'm sure there are things I've never thought of. Never tried."

Silence.


	15. The Den

"Should you need to capture my attention, my name is John. Suitable, as it is memorable for you only." He gives him a dismissive flick of the hand and elongates his stride, then turns back around and grins. "Without the 'h', I should think."

There is some minute change to his bearing that John is unable to quantify, and then the transformation is complete. "Seven minutes," says Jon, as he enters The Den.

_It must be the rounding_, John thinks, attempting to acclimate himself to his surroundings as he heads into the club exactly seven minutes later. _Thirty-two rounds down to thirty easily enough, and besides, in that getup Sherlock could easily pass for late twenties. Maybe even younger._ _Once you're solidly past 35, you might as well be forty._ He feels far too old and plain to be scoping out people in a place like this, as he tries to look like he belongs here amidst the thumping bass and flashing lights of the dance floor. Not exactly the down-a-beer-and-watch-a-match type of establishment he frequents- this place has a far different purpose.

Sherlock is mingling with the crowd, making his way through the pulsating throng, and John has strategically placed himself at the bar, refusing to take his eyes off of him. For safety's sake.

Dancing, Sherlock radiates pure sex. The suit is gone. He is lithe, dressed in black from head to toe, and John's eyes follow the long, dark line of his body, broken only by a flash of skin at the unbuttoned collar- black leather choker bearing a silver, dog-tag-sized medallion with a vaguely oriental design fitting snugly into the hollow of his throat. A tribal inked design peeks out of his rolled up shirtsleeve, visible only as he raises his arms over his head. His hair is tamed, slicked back on top while still managing to be, well, touchable, hint of curls on the very bottom. Is that… eyeliner... or do his lashes just look that much darker when his eyes shine in ambient light? To everyone else, he is only dancing (if the word "only" could apply to such a sight), but John sees the detective at work, effortlessly scanning the crowd, spotting his quarry, and heading over to the bar. John is transfixed. Sherlock cocks his head toward the door, and they leave.

As soon as they are outside, Sherlock turns towards him and says, his voice low, "The brother was right, St Claire was here. As a matter of fact, he still is."

"You saw him?"

Sherlock nods, "I saw his alter-ego… a dealer, by the name of Boone. St Claire goes in; Boone comes out. There are some remnants of stage makeup in the loo, a bit of hair from a cheap wig. Clearly, being recognized by a student is a fear, and with good reason, given the crowd. He seems to have chosen to remain as Boone, at least for now. That is why he abandoned his car. He must be working on some extended sale. Contrary to what his brother believes he saw, St Claire was never in danger. Well, I say never…"

Sherlock headed to a nearby alley. "Most likely, he practiced his trade out here. Wouldn't be wise inside." He searched along the wall, looking for a small enclave, less visible from the street.

"Why not? Surely he could make a transaction without being noticed."

"Not at Mike's place," said Sherlock, abruptly. "He'd recognize a dealer as readily as I, and he doesn't much care for them."

John gave a tight nod while his brain whirled.

After a few minutes, Sherlock sighed and spoke. "The drugs had lost their grip on me some time ago, John. I am fine."

John looked only partially relieved. "Is that why the disguise? You know Mike?"

"By reputation only. Even so, I'm not likely to be recognized. Too much time has passed, and I was not as, presentable, in those days." John struggled to picture Sherlock as looking anything other than collected. It was jarring. "Add that to the fact that I seldom went inside. No, the change in appearance is for my own benefit. It makes it easier to glean information when I am more approachable."

"By which you mean when you look so damn hot everyone in the place wants to chat you up? I've spent the last hour watching." Sherlock smirked, and John leaned in and gave him a soft, reclaiming kiss.

Up ahead, two figures in the dim light had managed to find themselves a semi-secluded spot. John thought he saw one of them glance up toward him and then increase his pace with his lover. Sherlock continued to examine the area along the wall with his torch, while John found himself increasingly interested in the men some distance off. They had broken their extended kiss and the taller man pinned the shorter against the wall with his whole body. The pinned man was far from passive, pushing his partner back to tear his jacket and shirt away and run his hands along his chest, exposing him to the chilled night air. John watched as the taller man reached a hand into the other's waistband and he heard a groan… from… behind him? It was Sherlock, eyeing his torch in frustration.

"It's too dark to find anything worthwhile," he frowned. "Let's go."

As they turned toward the street, John forced his gaze to the road ahead, picking up speed. Sherlock had given the quickest of glances at the lovers, then back at John, at the brick wall, at the pebbles on the ground.

"Home," he said, with resignation.


	16. Precarious

They ate their leftover takeout far too quietly. John swore he could hear the sound of grinding teeth on pot stickers. He unceremoniously dumped the plates in the sink.

"I wouldn't have. You are correct."

"Not going to do this, Sherlock…not going to have another conversation where only one of us knows what the hell we're talking about."

"But it is not because I am _afraid_. It is because don't want to tempt myself to push for greater insight. Not when you react so poorly."

"_I_ react so poorly?"

Sherlock rose from the table and headed towards the kitchen. "Yes. I could have made some headway back when I was at my most vulnerable, when I was more emotionally exposed, but you would have been an unwilling participant."

"Oh Christ, Sherlock, could you clue me in here? Are we talking about when you threw yourself on me like I was a bloody live grenade?"

"Back in the alley, I would have done it. But you didn't really want me to, because _you_ were afraid it would be _damaging_. Why didn't you tell me that you were interested in more exhibitionistic…"

"I'm not, contrary to your opinion, an idiot, Sherlock. I am not an idiot, and I know better than to suggest we try something so blatantly similar to… I was being a voyeur, not an exhibitionist!" John turned away, muttering "My, God, what was I just saying?" under his breath as he headed up to his room.

"It would be fine, John!"

John froze in his tracks and turned to face Sherlock. "What _wouldn't_ be fine, Sherlock? It's all or nothing, right? You are either spouting out every kink on the planet like some rent boy reading off his services menu, or avoiding all of it like the plague … it's one extreme or the other!"

"You won't understand. I don't think about it. It doesn't enter my thoughts until I see you wanting this, or, until my body decides of its own accord that it's time to give me an obvious message. So obvious that I can't focus on anything else until it's taken care of, just so I can _think_ again. I thought we'd been through this part already. I. Don't. Care."

"That's just it, Sherlock, I want you to care! I want you to want this. "

"I do want this. I want this, but I don't need this. You _need_ it. You can't control how your needs are or how they manifest themselves. You can do anything you want to. Should. Shamelessly."

"My sex drive is not some tsunami you need to brace yourself for and let wash over you until it's gone and you can breathe again. It's not all about me. Quit worrying about what _I_ _need_. Quit asking me about all the things I like and don't like. You're willing to try anything and everything under the sun just to see how you might react in your own personal experiment on yourself, but I am asking you something very different, Sherlock; I am asking you what you like!"

"Why are you asking me this? I like to be done with it… I like it when it's over and I can think again. I don't like arousal, I don't like orgasm, I don't like any of it!" John felt like he should speak up, but found there was nothing he could think of to say. "None of this is for me, John! Who cares what I want!"

"I do." John closed his eyes, clenched his jaw, forced himself to relax, and fought back a growing sense of nausea. "This whole thing is a stupid idea. I don't want anything from someone who doesn't want me."

"Wanting… is… it's not…" Sherlock's hands were making empty gestures, trying to grab words out of the ether. He lunged forward and grabbed John's shoulders, backing him up against the wall by the stairs in a single motion, his mouth covering John's. The time for conversation was over. John granted him access and the kiss was deep, but short, as Sherlock moved down to the base of his neck, speaking softly against his skin. "Now, we are in a rather precarious position here…" he said, sliding his hand into John's trousers, "as Mrs. Hudson could step into this…" he caressed the front of John's pants, sliding down his hardening cock while punctuating his words by placing wide-mouthed kisses, more like tastes, just above his collarbone, "semi-public… space… at any moment. But if you prefer… we could head…" Sherlock pulled the elastic band aside, and sought out warm skin, his tongue tracing a path to the other side of John's neck, "upstairs instead. Want. The things I want to do to you… John. If you will permit me."

John grinned slowly, entranced. "Yeah?" he said, roughly. "Like what?"

"You're the writer, John. I believe the phrase is, 'show, don't tell'…"


End file.
